


lost in time

by andibeth82



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Travel, blackout - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:38:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maggie’s smart enough to know that there are no quick fixes but she can’t give up thinking that there’s nothing worth living for. Not yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lost in time

**Author's Note:**

> For my darling [hollywoodgrrl!](hollywoodgrrl.livejournal.com) Who just wanted a Maggie fic. Happy birthday, Vera! :)

They’re watching television and she’s making breakfast (eggs and pancakes on the table as usual, just like it’s always been, just like it’s always going to be.) She checks their bags, walks them to school, picks them up and asks about their day. Later, she’ll make dinner (hotdogs and milk on the table as usual, just like it’s always been, just like it’s always going to be.)  
  
She jokes with them, puts them to bed, reads a section of _The Wizard of Oz_ by lamplight. He leans forward, arms outstretched and smiles when her son’s hand finds its way into her hair, when her daughter’s face presses up against her knee.  
  
And then Maggie wakes up.  
  
  
***  
  
  
It’s been two weeks without power. Some think the situation is temporary, some think the world has come to an end, and it’s a strange thing, she realizes, the way people adapt to loss and a national crisis. She passes through the streets and stares at men with dead eyes, women who look so lost they very can barely make conversation, and it feels like everyone in the world has already thrown in the towel on life, on hope, on any kind of progress. Maggie’s smart enough to know that there are no quick fixes but she can’t give up thinking that there’s nothing worth living for. Not yet.  
  
Not while her kids are still out there.  
  
She walks until she finds a road that at one time might have been a highway but is now simply filled with abandoned cars. There’s a wagon stationed by one of the exit lanes, its back end filled with individuals harboring drawn faces and the whole thing looks like something out of the apocalypse. Maggie stops herself before laughing out loud, realizing how absurd the thought would have been at one time, and how pertinent it is now.  
  
She pushes herself through the crowd, fumbling in her pockets for something (anything), comes up with a five dollar bill she’s not even sure is worth its weight and approaches the man at the front of the wagon. “I -” Her voice breaks as she pushes the green paper harder against his calloused skin. “My children. I need…I need to find my children.”  
  
She feels as if her words are falling on deaf ears, yet she can’t understand why. Surely she’s not the only person who’s lost something or someone. Surely everyone else might have understood. Maggie knows her grief is no different than the woman next to her who refuses to raise her eyes or the man across from her who clutches a beaten up passport as if his life depends on it. But she needs someone to help her, because she can’t keep pushing on alone, hoping that there’s some light at the end of the tunnel.  
  
She needs to know there’s someone else out there.  
  
The man says nothing as his fist closes around her offering and pushes her towards the mass of bodies, the sharp movement causing her to stumble. She knocks into an older woman who falls to the ground, her hands scraping over the pavement, and without thinking, Maggie quickly drops next to her.  
  
“Please!” The words burst out louder than she means to, frustrations finally boiling over as she helps lift the woman’s bleeding palms off the ground. “I’m a doctor.” She tears at a piece of her sleeve with shaking fingers. “Please, just…let me help you.”  
  
 _Let me help someone, since I can’t help myself_.  
  
The woman finally relents, her body sagging forward as Maggie wraps the wound. There are no words of thank you as the wagon pulls away but at this point, she’s figuring no one has much of anything to offer, much less a sense of gratitude.  
  
She closes her eyes against silence, feigning sleep, and pretends it’s all a dream.  
  
  
***  
  
  
She manages to keep her sanity throughout the first three days, throughout the darkness and fights and bad attitudes. On the fourth, her iPhone finally dies and that’s when Maggie loses it, breaking down and not caring who might notice. The days after are a blur where all she knows is that when the sun rises it’s morning and when the sun sets its time to sleep and eventually, she abandons the wagon, strikes out on her own, blisters on her feet and torn skin on her hands.  
  
Every so often she finds herself pulling out her phone, staring at the small screen as if the sheer will of wanting something bad enough will make a difference and allow her to see her children’s faces again, if only for a few seconds.  
  
The screen remains black, and Maggie keeps walking.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Over the next two weeks, she finds out that she’s good at hiding. Hiding from the Milita, from people who want to steal her food or her clothes, hiding from the looters that seem to pop up everywhere no matter where she travels to. She finds out she’s good at tracking, tracking footsteps of people that have come before and after her, being careful to avoid those that seem like they belong to people that might cause her harm. But she finds out she’s not good at forgetting, at keeping her mind from wandering to that day of the blackout and what she would’ve done differently if she had only taken two seconds to read a story or say three words. Three words that were different than “go to bed.”  
  
When she finally reaches what looks like a harbor, she practically throws herself at the man sitting by the dock and it’s only then that she realizes weeks on the road have left her with little money and perhaps even less sanity. Her pleas are denied not once, not twice, but three times and it’s the same everywhere she goes, no matter what she manages to scrounge up and no matter how she manages to bribe. And after a year on the road, after a year of sleeping on the ground and crashing with strangers in small villages that do nothing to return the favors, Maggie starts to realize that she might never see anything that resembles home, much less see her children, ever again.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The clearing isn’t exactly where she would have ever expected to die, but considering there weren’t many places where you could sit without being bothered, she figures it’s far better than the inside of a bunker or the middle of the woods. _Or the hands of the Milita._ Maggie grimaces as two fingers slide into her pocket, brushing against the small bottle, and closes her eyes.  
  
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all, being dead, and half the world already seemed to be dead anyway, and it was doubtful her kids had found a way to survive unless someone had taken pity on them. The bottle finds its way into her hand and she draws it out slowly, fingernails digging into her skin as she clutches it against her palm.  
  
“You okay?"  
  
Startled, Maggie looks up at the shadow that seems to have come out of nowhere, somewhat surprised by both the sentiment and the intrusion as she realizes with a start that it’s the first time someone has genuinely asked or cared about her well-being since she started this damn journey. She opens her mouth, closes it, and then opens it again before speaking.  
  
“No.” Maggie looks down, swallowing tears in an effort to keep her voice steady, knowing it’s a futile endeavor. “I’m not okay.”  
  
The man kneels and she finally meets his eyes, takes in the long dark hair that falls in messy waves across his face. A kinder smile than she’s seen in awhile plays over his features and she can’t help but smile back as he gently moves a hand up and down her arm. “I’m Ben.”  
  
“Maggie.” She averts her gaze back to the ground as Ben clears his throat.  
  
“Are you alone?”  
  
At that, Maggie barks out a sudden laugh, unable to help herself because the simple question seems like the epitome of irony. Biting down on her bottom lip, she shakes her head and presses one foot into the ground, not trusting her voice to respond. In the spell of awkward silence, Ben shifts from one foot to the other as if waging a silent mental battle of whether to say more.  
  
“Listen, we’ve…got some food back at our camp. And it’s safe there, I promise. My daughter and my son are with me. If you need someplace to stay…or go…” He trails off, standing and brushing a hand over his legs, one hand outstretched. Maggie stares at his fingers, her mind working to remember what it felt like to have someone actually care.  
  
“I - Thanks.” She stands awkwardly to meet his height, shoving small bottle deep into her pocket. Ben looks increasingly uncomfortable as he pushes a hand through his hair.  
  
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. But I just want you to know…” He shrugs slightly, another smile climbing over his lips. “I just want you to know that there’s someone else out there.”  
  
Maggie watches him walk in the direction that she assumes he came, thinks of the phone in her pocket, of the screen that she knows will always be black no matter how many times she wishes otherwise. She thinks of hiding in the woods, of the fishermen who consistently turned her down, of the men and women in the wagon that first day of the blackout. She thinks of how hard she tried to so hard to get someone to notice, of how she had once needed someone to show her they cared.  
  
 _Let me help someone if I can’t help myself._  
  
“Wait.”  
  
The words are out before she can stop them and Maggie breaks into a run, jogging along until she falls into rhythm with Ben’s movements. She meets his eyes, managing a smile, blinking back fresh tears.  
  
“I think…I’d like to come with you.”  
  
END


End file.
